


Soft Tumblr Prompts

by CassLikesFic



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hair Washing, Holding Hands, Hugs, Infidelity, Jaskier Has A Stressful Evening, M/M, Misunderstandings, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23281645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassLikesFic/pseuds/CassLikesFic
Summary: A collection of Soft™ prompts from my tumblr.May I offer you some Gentle Boys™ in this trying time?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 194





	1. Washing Hair

Jaskier was drowsing in the tub, drying blood caked on his nose and upper lip from his latest bar fight. Geralt had tried to put a calming hand on his arm and mutter, “Let it go-”

But that wasn’t how Jaskier did things. Especially not when people were calling him _monster_ and _butcher_ and _mutant_ in less than creative terms. Geralt was starting to feel like a tired old hunting dog that had somehow been adopted by a feral alley cat. Gently picking Jaskier up by the scruff of his neck (or more usually, the back of his doublet) and carrying him away from a fight, still hissing and spitting and clawing was the only way to get him out of a bar fight once it started.

That, or let the bard get beaten into unconsciousness, which he wasn’t about to do. For some reason, Jaskier decided his reputation needed defending. Geralt couldn’t repay that back with apathy.

Jaskier started awake at the touch of a soft cloth on his bruised nose, with a quiet, complaining groan of pain. “Oh, leave off, I’ll get it later.” He muttered, cracking open one eye and gesturing with a wet hand, but otherwise not moving to stop Geralt’s care.

“It’ll hurt more later.” Geralt said quietly, waiting for Jaskier’s nod before continuing to carefully wipe the mess away. He was still surprised that the bard was comfortable with his presence. It was a very, very short list of people who would relax calmly, naked in a warm tub, with the Butcher of Blaviken leaning over them. Jaskier held no fear, merely mild annoyance and a pained grunt when Geralt pressed a little too hard at his tender nose. “You do this for me often enough.”

“Suppose that’s true.” Jaskier sighed, closing his eyes again and relaxing into the touch.

“Your hair smells like ale and blood.”

“Mmf. Well, that big bastard with the beard dumped his pint over my head before I headbutted him. No surprise there.” Jaskier’s tone was warm with pride.

“It should smell like that hair oil of yours.” Geralt commented, getting the bottle out of Jaskier’s pack and a wooden cup. “Tip your head forward.” He pressed warm fingers to the back of Jaskier’s neck, moving the bard where he wanted him.

Jaskier complied with a low, appreciative sound at the trickle of warm water sluicing over his dirty hair. He sighed gently as Geralt began working the oil into his hair, massaging his scalp with firm fingers.

“Why do you always do this?” Geralt asked softly, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“The fights? It’s the right thing to do. You’re not a monster, or a butcher. Those shit stains who couldn’t find their own balls with two hands, a map, and a lantern-” Anger grew in a rising tide in Jaskier’s voice, and Geralt rolled his eyes fondly. If he let him, the bard would go through every insult in his quite varied and colorful vocabulary.

“Shh. Not that.” He gently pressed his fingers into a knot in the nape of Jaskier’s neck, enjoying the pleased groan the bard made. “This.”

“No one touches you kindly.” Jaskier yawned hugely, his head dropping forward. “You deserve that.”

“Hm.”


	2. Holding Hands

Jaskier’s hands were always moving. They fidgeted along the buttons of his doublet. Tugged at the strap of his lute case, constantly adjusting it. Resettled on his hips, then behind his back, then clasped together in front of him. Even when Geralt wasn’t looking at the bard, he could hear the curves that Jaskier’s hands carved in the air as he spoke.

It got worse when Jaskier drank. His fingers drummed over his cup, tapped at the table next to Geralt’s hand, and almost but never quite landed on the Witcher’s shoulder or wrist.

“Why are you so nervous?” Geralt said quietly one evening, gently but deliberately laying his hand over the top of Jaskier’s with a small smile. Jaskier looked at Geralt, eyes widening before an answering smile spread over his face.

“I’m not anymore.” Jaskier said quietly, gently squeezing Geralt’s hand.


	3. Hugs

“How do friends touch each other?” Geralt asked quietly one night. Jaskier sat next to him on a log by the fire, plucking out a soft, lilting melody. His hands stilled on the strings, and he studied Geralt with a careful concern that had never been in his face before. Geralt swallowed and looked away. Jaskier gently laid a hand on his arm.

“In this particular case, I don’t want to suggest things.” He said softly, carefully. Like Geralt was an easily spooked horse, or a wild creature he was surprised to find across from the fire. His tone was gentle, but firm. “Can you tell me what you’re asking for?”

“I want to touch you. Just to touch.” Geralt remembered the brief, fierce embraces at Kaer Morhen, clasping backs of necks, touching foreheads, squeezing shoulders. He couldn’t remember the last time he had simply touched someone, without paying for the privilege. And when paying, he knew it was not considerate to linger on touches that weren’t welcome. He ignored the heat in his stomach and the sinking feeling the answer would be _no, that isn’t what friends do. Not even friends like us._ “…not with any…goal in mind.”

The smile that crossed Jaskier’s face was like sunlight dancing over water, bright and open. “Ah, that’s easily done.” Jaskier set his lute aside, then stood. He offered both his hands to Geralt, helping him stand. The assistance made the corner of Geralt’s mouth twitch, but he made no comment.

“Here.” Jaskier said softly, opening his arms. Geralt made a low, surprised noise when those arms slipped around his waist and under his own arms, Jaskier’s palms resting gently on his back. “Now, if you’d like, you do the same.” He murmured.

Geralt closed his arms carefully around the other man, letting his hands rest at the small of Jaskier’s back. Jaskier pressed gently with his palms, and exhaled with a soft, content sound.

“When you let go, I’ll let go.” Jaskier said with a warm smile. “And that’s all there is to it. Whenever you’d like this, just open your arms.” 

Geralt could feel Jaskier’s strength in the muscles under his hands. Jaskier’s hair smelled faintly of sunlight and the dust from the road, crushed grass. He exhaled softly and rested his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder, pressing him closer briefly. 

“That’s it, see?” Jaskier said softly, slowly rubbing circles on Geralt’s back. “Easy.”


	4. Modern AU

Hookups were easy. Hookups made sense. Usually they went to Geralt’s apartment. Afterwards Geralt made easy excuses about training in the morning or a gig later that night, and they parted ways after exchanging phone numbers. 

Going to Jaskier’s apartment hadn’t been what Geralt had expected. For one thing, it was clean. For another, there was actual furniture in it. Furniture that someone had apparently exchanged good money for, not fished out of a dumpster.

Geralt also never slept over. Ever. He just didn’t do it. So waking up to bright morning sunshine in his face and the smell of something delicious cooking was…startling. And a little uncomfortable. Jaskier was nowhere to be found.

He found Jaskier in the kitchen in socks, boxers, and a too-large canary yellow tee-shirt with OXFU emblazoned in large letters across the front. Something was sizzling in a copper pan on his gas stove, and he was humming along to- was that _opera_ \- playing on a small radio on the counter. Jaskier looked over at Geralt and beamed at him.

“Great, you’re up! I’m making omelets.” Jaskier did something to the pan with an elegant flick of his wrist, the omelet flipping neatly. “I’ve got a late class this afternoon, but we can do brunch before I have to get going. Last night was fun.”

Oh. 

_Oh._

Oh _…fuck_.


	5. Confessing to Roach

“I’ll say, I got you these flowers because- well, I don’t really like them, but they’re pretty, and you’re-”

Roach snorts and begins eagerly lipping at the bundle of slightly wilting dandelions and buttercups Geralt is holding. Geralt tries to pull away and salvage what’s left of the- frankly pathetic, if he’s honest- posy he gathered, tugging a frayed black ribbon out of the horse’s mouth.

“Those were for Jaskier.” He admonishes with no real feeling, stroking Roach’s nose with a gentle hand. “No flowers then, hm? Or just no calling him pretty?”

Roach snorts and snuffles at the stems left in Geralt’s hand, and he relents and offers them to her, giving her a firm scratch behind one ear.

“Yeah, you’re right. He’s more handsome than pretty. Nearly as tall as I am, too. Strong through the shoulders. Maybe he wouldn’t like flowers at all. Maybe I should start with small talk. Bards like small talk. I’ll say something like, Jaskier! I didn’t see you there! How are…things?”

Roach snorts again.

“Don’t sass me.” Geralt points a finger at her in warning. “I’ve been told I can be charming when I need to be.” He combs his fingers slowly through Roach’s mane, carefully working out the tangles with a soft exhale. “Gotta say something to the man. It’ll be twenty years, tonight.”

Roach tosses her head and bumps his chest affectionately with her nose when his fingers slow in her mane.

“Yes, of course I’m making him his favorite dinner. I’m not thick. Got a bottle of that wine he likes, too, the sticky sweet white kind.” He glances at Roach nervously. “What, you think I should have bought a present, too?”

Roach nickers, her ears perking up in a way that means something- or someone- she likes is near. Damn. He should have gotten a present too. Roach lips at the ends of Geralt’s hair and he bats her mouth away with a fond smile.

“Suppose I just tell him, hm? I just say to him, Jaskier, I’ve always appreciated your company and your conversation and your music, and you have a place in my heart that no one else has ever held. You’re…the one constant thing in my life, and I don’t want to lose you because I’m bad at saying so. I love you. And then, depending on how dinner and the wine goes over, maybe go in for a kiss.”

Geralt glances across the fire, pupils gone wide and dark at the sound of Jaskier clearing his throat quietly, a soft smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

“You know, I think you said it fine the first time,” Jaskier says warmly, tossing one of Roach’s brushes to Geralt. “Though I can tell you now, the kiss would equally be welcome before dinner.”


	6. “I know what it looks like-”

Jaskier Tries to Be A Good Person and Fuck Responsibly, He Really Does, And _Yet_.

He somehow always finds himself in the wrong place, with the wrong person, at the wrong time. With the very best of intentions and the very worst of contexts. 

Like, he chats up the barman, who is very sweet and very well muscled, and makes an arrangement for a meeting later that evening, between single, sober, consenting adults. Yes, very good. But then there comes a knock on his door, and he opens it shirtless, expecting the barman, whose name is Dag, but it’s Gwennie instead, who was serving him that evening at his table. And _she_ is dressed in a very thin nightgown, in a very cold hallway, with her pretty curls tumbled around her bare shoulders, and _well_. It would be gentlemanly to wrap a blanket around those cold shoulders while he sits her down on the bed (as it’s the only place to sit in a very small room) and explain to her that unfortunately, he has a previous engagement this evening and he’s unavailable. 

In the middle of this explanation, there’s a knock, and Jaskier is standing when he locks eyes with the confidently entering barman. Who looks at the serving woman, who looks at him, and says, “Oh hell, my _brother, Dag,_ what are you doing there _-”_ Thinking he’s come to break up the evening’s tryst.

“ _Brother?”_ Jaskier yelps. “This isn’t what it looks like-”

“Really, you couldn’t wait and had to go with my _sister Gwennie?”_

“ _Sister?!”_ He manages to add incredulously. “No, no, it truly isn’t what it looks like, it really, _really_ isn’t-” 

And now he’s run out of his room for the evening with a hastily packed bag and his lute, and he sees a posh drinking establishment and offers to play a few songs for their cheapest drink and sleeping the night in a chair by the fire, and that goes well enough until he’s approached by a very handsome, very wealthy nobleman. 

Who’s wearing so many gold rings on so many fingers, well, it’s hard to tell what is and isn’t decorative. And when the man murmurs sweet praises of Jaskier’s singing, and how a talented artist such as himself shouldn’t want for a warm bed-

They’re certainly both old enough to make that choice with a clear conscience, and it was a small enough drink to be clear headed enough to make the choice. They’re both undressed and laying together in the nobleman’s bed on the _finest_ silk sheets and beginning to kiss, there’s a sound of a front door opening and Jaskier asks, “Er- do you share your rooms with someone?”

At the same time that the man hisses, “Oh hell, my _husband’s home-”  
_

And Jaskier is groaning, “HUSBAND?!” As he’s jumping out of bed and getting his clothes on as quickly as he can-

Which leads to the man’s formidable (and not unattractive himself) bursting in upon the scene of Jaskier, reaching for the laces of his pants and glaring at his vulnerable, naked spouse in bed as he hisses, “-what do you mean your _husband_ ‘ _s_ home?”

This leads to him being none to gently escorted out a (thankfully ground level) window at sword point and into a hedge. Fortunately, his lute is undamaged, but that’s not the time to think of such things as he hastily dashes through the garden, tugging his boots on as he goes.  
  
Which leads to a run through town at double quick time, half dressed, with men from the Silk Merchant’s Guild, Tailor’s Guild, and Weaver’s Guild all out for the blood of the prowler who was about to defile the guild leader’s young husband. (A political marriage, and apparently one without either open terms or sufficient warmth in the marriage bed, as it turns out.)

That leads to Jaskier offering awkward explanations to Geralt’s resigned and disappointed visage above him on Roach at the outskirts of town. Geralt hearing all of that as Jaskier stands there with his shirt undone, pants on backwards, both boots unlaced, leaves in his hair, and a small scratch on his neck that won’t stop bleeding.  
  
“I know what it looks like-” He says frantically as the crowd advances on him and the Witcher. “I _really_ know what it looks like, but it isn’t.”  
  
“Bard’s visited a few beds, I see.” Geralt comments to the restless group waiting for him to dole out some justice.  
  
“The bard has had a _very stressful evening-”_ Jaskier comments with exhausted feeling. 

“I’m taking him off your hands.” Geralt says, tugging Jaskier onto Roach and riding out of town without another word.


	7. Horses Are Better Than People

Geralt flopped back on the pile of straw, sighing and scrubbing at a cut high on his cheek. He pillowed his head back on his arms and looked at Roach, who was happily eating mouthfuls of his improvised bedding. Geralt sang soft and low under his breath, a song just for Roach. "Horses are better than people, Roach, don't you think that's true?"

He pitched his voice just a little higher, trying to make Roach's voice as sweet and true as his horse's temperment. " _Yes people will beat you and curse you and cheat you. Every one of them's bad, except you._ " Geralt smiled and rubbed Roach's nose. "Thanks, Roach." He said softly, a tired growl.

He sighed and flopped back on the straw, ignoring the way the pieces prickled through his shirt. "But people smell better than horses. Roach, don't you think that's right?"

" _That's once again true, for all except you-_ " Geralt made himself laugh with the lyric. He reeked of drowner guts and swamp water. He closed his eyes and finished the song, letting himself finally relax into the warm straw. "You got me, let's call it a night. Goodniiiight. Don't let the Bruxas..." He stifled a yawn on the last word. "...bite..."

"Nice duet." A warm voice commented from the doorway. There was a young nobleman with tousled brown hair, leaning against the frame and watching Geralt sing to his horse.

Geralt was on his feet in a flash, swords out and ready.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Horses are Better than People](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25558768) by [fannishliss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss)




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